Chasing the Lost (5 page)

“I think you’ll be all right out here,” Chase said. “Call your husband while I’m inside, and check if there’s been anything new.”

Chase disarmed. He put the MK, a dagger, the garrote from the inside of his belt, and a small Leatherman attached to his key chain in the metal console between the two front seats.

Sarah watched him do this with interest. “You sure you got everything?”

“I’m sure,” Chase said, but he thought about it for a second, mentally running through his personal armory. He locked the console, then got out of the Jeep and went to the front door.

A fat, old man in a deputy’s uniform sat at a table next to metal detector.

“Morning. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Parsons,” Chase said.

The deputy didn’t invite Chase to pass through the metal detector. He picked up a phone. He spoke in a low voice, glanced up at Chase as if what he heard wasn’t good, then hung up.

“All metal in the bowl,” he said.

Chase put the key in it along with his belt. The deputy waved him through, and he succeeded without a beep. He collected his key and belt.

“Down the hall, up the stairs, right and right.”

“Thanks.”

Parsons was waiting at the top of the stairs, holding the high ground.

“Cuhnel,” Parsons said as Chase climbed up to his level. He stuck out his hand. “Fancy seeing you coming for a visit. Is it social or business?”

“There were—a” Chase began, but Parsons waved him silent as he led the way down the hallway. They went into an office, and Parsons shut the door.

A Marine Corps flag decorated the wall on one side, a cluster of plaques and photographs on the other. A window, not a narrow one, was behind the chair. Parsons sat down in a leather chair while Chase took the hard plastic one in front of the desk.

Parsons tapped the computer on the left side of his desk. “I been reading up on you, Cuhnel. You were an officer of the law in Boulder, Colorado, for a brief spell. One of them fancy F.L.I.s the Feds been sending out. We have not been honored here in Beaufort with one of your kind yet, unfortunately.”

He said it in a way the indicated it was not unfortunate at all.

Chase waited, knowing he was on Parsons’ turf now.

“Seems you separated from both the police and the Feds pretty quickly, pretty recently,” Parsons continued. “And there’s not much on your Federal Service record. West Point, Infantry, into Special Forces, then it sort of disappears, much like I imagine you did.”

Chase remained silent.

“What happened in Colorado, if you don’t me asking?”

“I mind,” Chase said.

Parson’s face tightened. “Keep your secrets, Cuhnel.” He picked up a mug with a unit flash emblazoned on it, and took a drink. He didn’t offer Chase any from the pot on top of a filing cabinet. “You know, I could always call over to Boulder and chat with one of your former colleagues. What might I hear?”

“Depends who you talk to.”

Parson gave the ghost of a smile. “Always does, always does. What can I do you for?”

“Did you get a report of shots fired in Spanish Wells last night?”

Parsons leaned back in his chair. “We sure did.”

“I didn’t see any flashing lights.”

“That’s cause there weren’t,” Parsons said. “Spanish Wells security called us right after. Kids with fireworks on the beach, they said. Said they took care of it.”

“And your people didn’t investigate?”

“No flashing lights, right?” Parsons leaned forward. “Let me tell you some of the realities of your new home, Cuhnel. Hilton Head has seven gated communities. Completely private. Each with its own security force. Each of those security forces is armed and certified by the State as a legitimate police force in their own right.

“They don’t depend on the county or the state for nothing. The island even has its own fire department. Technically, yes, they’re in Beaufort County, but my boss, the County Sheriff, he’s made it clear there’s a line we’re not to cross unless invited. That line goes right between those fancy pillars at the entrance to each of those communities. Pretty much actually starts right at Pinckney Island as you’re hitting the on-ramp for the bridge.”

“You visited the other day,” Chase noted.

“I sure did,” Parsons said. “I was invited.”

“They thought the badge would scare me.”

Parsons shrugged. “May well be what they thought, Cuhnel. But it didn’t, did it?”

Chase didn’t answer.

“I’m assuming, dumb southern sheriff that I be, that it wasn’t kids on the beach with fireworks. And given that you are now a prized member of the exclusive Spanish Wells community, and knowing your background, why do I have to also assume you were involved?”

Chase considered the lieutenant, not sure what angle the man was playing, or where his loyalty lied. The Semper Fi thing could be a mirage, something to draw him into confidence with a man not worthy of it.

Parsons continued, as if sensing Chase’s reluctance to share. “You’re in old Doc Cleary’s house. Deeded to you by your mother, who was deeded it by Doc. I did not have the pleasure of your mother’s acquaintance. She was a very private woman from all I heard, and I am sorry to hear she passed. But I knew Doc. Bent an elbow with him, time and again.”

“What happened to Doc?” Chase asked. “I got a letter from him, saying he’d scattered my mother’s ashes, at her insistence, in the Intracoastal. But he’s gone.”

Parsons nodded. “He went missing ‘bout a year ago. Him and his boat. Nice sloop, and Doc knew how to spread the canvas. He could be anywhere by now. Around the world, for all one knows. He always was private, too, although your mother spent quite a few years with him. And he helped anyone who needed it. Even after he retired. Anyone in the low country knew if they needed help, they could go to old Doc. People miss him.”

Chase believed what Parsons was saying. There were times when the measure of a man had to be made on his word. “Why’d you Semper Fi me yesterday?”

“Former warriors in arms,” Parsons said. “There ain’t many of us left around here or anywhere in this country, if you think about it. Less than one percent of Americans have ever worn the uniform. Can you believe that? Not exactly the great generation we’re living with. We’ve got a bond.”

Chase shook his head. “There’s more to it than that.”

Parsons sighed. He got up and went over to the coffee pot. He poured his cup full, then picked up an empty cup, this one also having some sort of military logo on it. He arched an eyebrow at Chase.

“Please.”

Parsons poured it full, then set it down in front of Chase. “When you had your shirt off the other day. Shrapnel and a bullet wound, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Yeah. Seen the like before.”

“Ranger regiment,” Chase said, noting the scroll on the side of the cup. “Not many Marines go through Ranger School, and none serve in the regiment.”

“My son was in the Army,” Parsons said. “Still is. Sort of. If Walter Reed and missing both your legs is in the Army.”

“It is,” Chase said. He lifted the coffee mug. “In honor of your son, and his service and sacrifice.”

They both took a sip of coffee. Chase put the mug on the edge of the desk. “It was gunshots. Mine. The other guys had suppressors. Two of them, at least.”

“You seem to be a shit magnet,” Parsons said.

Chase shook his head. “They weren’t after me. They were after that woman, Sarah. Friends of theirs had already kidnapped her son off the dock behind her house.”

Parsons voice lost a lot of its drawl. “Tell me what happened, start to finish.”

“I need your word that it stays between us. I’ll deny saying anything if you try to go formal on me. Shouldn’t be that hard, since it seems Hilton Head is on the dark side of the moon, as far as you guys are concerned.”

“Pretty damn close assessment of the reality.” Parsons nodded. “You have my word.”

Chase detailed the events, just like he’d done many times before in debriefings after missions. Parsons never interrupted, nor did he make any notes, just absorbing the information. When Chase was done, there was a moment of silence, then Parsons spoke.

“This Sarah Briggs the woman I met at your house that day?”

“Yes.”

“Same one sitting out yonder in the parking lot in your Jeep.” It wasn’t a question. Parsons took a sip of coffee. “It
could
be the Russian mob.”

“You aren’t dialing the FBI like you should be,” Chase noted.

“I’m not,” Parsons agreed. “Not only because I promised and I keep my word, but because if it is the Russian mob, the best chance her kid has got is if her husband pays.”

“That isn’t the reason.”

Parsons smiled. “You might have made a good cop if you’d done it a while longer. Maybe as good a cop as I bet you were a soldier. And it’s ‘cause you were most likely a good soldier that I’m not calling the FBI. Seems like you’re going after Cole and plan on bringing him back, and I’d put better odds on that than the FBI, given the time constraints. Nearest Fed field office is in Columbia. Will takes those boys a day just to get down here and get set up, and you don’t even have a full day left on the deadline. And the Feebs don’t like coming down here as much as we don’t like having to call them down here.”

“You’re breaking the law,” Chase noted.

“Only you know that,” Parsons replied.

“Tell me about the Russians around here,” Chase said. “I had a little run-in with one in Colorado.”

“You’ll have to tell me about that some day, when you feel I’m worthy of the story.” Parsons leaned back once more. “Ivar Karralkov. Runs a strip club called Tantalize, just this side of the state line, outside of Savannah. It’s a cover for his many other operations.”

“Which are?”

“If I knew for sure, maybe we’d be doing something about it,” Parsons said, “although he is headquartered outside of this county. Our jurisdiction ends about ten miles from where he’s set up. County Sheriff where his club is located gets well-paid to mind his own beeswax. Karralkov comes up to Hilton Head every so often. Owns a house, although not in Spanish Wells. On the ocean side, north of Coligny Circle, not in a gated community.”

“What else is he into?”

Parsons shrugged. “Drugs. Women. Arms. Pretty much anything that makes him money. He’s got some legitimate businesses, also.”

It was a starting point. Chase started to get up, but Parsons spoke up.

“You doing this alone?”

“You want to come with me?”

Parsons smiled. “That would make it a legal matter. But there’s someone you might want to chat with. He knows a bit about Karralkov. And he’s another brother-in-arms.”

Chase sank back down in the chair and picked up the mug, waiting on the detective.

“His name is Riley. Also retired Army. Also former Special Forces. He hangs out at the Shack yonder on Dafuskie Island.”

“You know him?” Chase asked.

“I’ve met him,” Parsons said. “Quiet fellow. But he sees and hears a lot from the people who frequent the Shack. He lives in it during the off-season as caretaker. Get the feeling he’s a stand-up fellow.”

“His first name Dave?”

Parsons was surprised. “Yeah.
You
know him?”

“Heard of him, back in the day.”

“And what did you hear?”

“Anything else I should know?” Chase asked.

“We never had this conversation, Cuhnel,” Parsons said. “I’m only helping you because there’s a kid involved, and this has got a short fuse with the Super Bowl tomorrow evening. If it blows up, we never spoke.”

Chase finished the coffee and stood. “Thank you.”

* * * * *

To get to Dafuskie Island, Chase was going to need a boat.

To get Cole back, he was going to need a team, especially if it was the Russian mob.

The best way to get the first, and start on the second, meant finding Kono.

“What did you learn?” Sarah asked as he got in the Jeep. Chase relayed the scant information about Karralkov that Parsons had given him.

“So the Russians
do
have Cole,” Sarah summarized.

“Likely,” Chase allowed, “but it isn’t certain.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“I know.”

“What now?”

Chase turned the key, starting up the engine. “I’m going to need help.”

Sarah nodded. “And you know where to find it.”

“I believe so.”

Sarah reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Everything has been crazy, but I’ve been sitting here thinking, remembering. Walter and I have been so selfish, caught up in the turmoil of our marriage, that we pretty much ignored Cole. Now I see what a fool I was, how self-centered I’ve been.”

Chase had never been able to handle a relationship with an adult, never mind a child. On the ride here from Colorado, he’d gotten a text from his ex, Anne, thanking him for the divorce papers he’d finally signed. He’d been served the papers in Afghanistan almost two years ago. Unfortunately for his desiring-to-be-ex-wife, he’d gotten wounded, been notified his mother had died, and ended up in the same Walter Reed where Parson’s son was learning what his new life was going to be, minus his legs. Which snapped Chase out of feeling sorry for himself.

“Marriage is a hard thing,” Chase said, “especially if you were separated for a large part of the time.”

“You were married, then,” Sarah said, “and using the past tense, I assume, divorced?”

“Yeah. My ex just remarried.”
Ex
was another new term for Chase, and he realized it was the first time he’d used it. It didn’t come up in casual conversation with the waitress at Denny’s as you ate breakfast on a drive across the country. At least not for a man like Chase. People didn’t ‘chat’ with a man like Horace Chase. More accurately, Chase didn’t chat.

Sarah’s hand was still on his arm. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

“It’s good for her,” Chase said, and was surprised he meant it. “She wanted what I appeared to be, not what I was. I think she now has the real deal she wanted.”

Sarah cocked her head, indicating she was listening. “Most men wouldn’t admit that.” She opened her mouth to say something more, but stopped.